


To Sing the Sun in Flight

by glorious_spoon



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: First Time, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind Meld, Pon Farr, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, Self-Doubt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 12:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3610479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock attempts to lock himself away and ride out the blood fever alone. Jim isn't having any of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Sing the Sun in Flight

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically just porn. Porn and angst. Pon Farr, self-sacrificing sex, self-doubt, angst, FEELINGS. You know the drill. This is so cliched I’m actually kind of ashamed of myself. But, well, I wrote it, so I’m posting it. Enjoy.

It would not have mattered, really, if they had never kissed, if they had never touched in passion, if all he had ever known of Jim Kirk’s hands was a clap on his back, a friendly arm around his shoulders. Their souls were already intertwined; it did not matter if their bodies never followed suit. If Jim had never come to him, it would not have made a difference.

He had, though. The fires of Pon Farr had taken him, and Jim found him, over-rode his privacy seal and let himself into Spock’s quarters, stepped up to him, his face inches away, and hissed, “If you think I’m going to let you die of this when I can stop it you can damn well think again.”

Spock remembers clenching his fists at his sides to hold himself still. “You don’t know what you’re offering.”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea,” Jim said. His expression was intense, but Spock was helpless to interpret it until Jim reached up, cradled his face in both hands like it was something precious and rare, and kissed him. Gently, and without heat. “Spock. You need this.”

His lips were cool. His hands were cool, rough and strong and cool, so blessedly cool that Spock wanted to dive into him and stay there until this wretched heat had been leached away.

“Jim,” he whispered--just that, nothing more. A low, desperate plea, and he did not even know if he was begging Jim to go, to go now while he still could, or to stay forever.

Both, perhaps.

Jim did not leave. Jim dropped his hands from Spock’s face, engendering a moment of dizzying panic, but he was only dropping them to Spock’s waist, to push up under his tunic until he found bare skin.

Spock was conscious of a gasping breath, and then he was moving without conscious decision or thought. His hands on Jim’s shoulders, tight enough to bruise; pushing Jim back against the bulkhead with his own superior strength. Jim’s startled face, hazel eyes wide, lips parted before Spock bent to taste them. No dry, sexless kiss this time; this was hot, open-mouthed, the taste and the feel of him-- _Jim_ \--as he opened himself to Spock’s ruthless assault, his hands gripping tighter, as though determined to prove the truth of his offer.

When he finally pulled away, Jim was looking up at him, breathless and flushed. Spock thought that he had never seen anything so compelling. “Let me,” he breathed, hands gripping Jim’s gold tunic, crumpling fabric. “Let me--”

“Yes.”

The thin fabric parted easily in his hands. Jim let out a surprised little breath of laughter as Spock threw aside the torn scraps. “Not quite what I meant, Spock.”

The sound of his name on Jim’s lips made Spock shudder, but there was a distant little prickle of shame at the words. At his utter lack of control; he could not change it, but--

And Jim must have sensed that, somehow, because his expression softened. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “C’mere.”

“I cannot--” Language, and sense, seemed very far away just then, but it was important that he explain, that he give Jim a last chance. “Jim. I cannot--be gentle.”

Jim’s expression held no fear, only warmth. He nodded. “I understand, Spock. It’s all right.”

It was not, it was manifestly _not_ ‘all right’, but Spock had reached the limits of his fraying control. His own tunic met the same fate as Jim’s in short order, and then they were pressed together, bare-skinned to the waist, Spock’s fingers digging into Jim’s cool skin with bruising force. Jim’s hands slipped between them, his nimble fingers making short work of the fastenings on first his own trousers, then Spock’s. He shoved them down and kicked out his boots--Spock himself was already barefoot--and then they were both nude.

Spock kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him--on some level, he was aware that he was being too forceful, that he was pressing too hard, that his captain’s fragile human body could not withstand his full strength without injury, but it did not seem to matter to his hands, which scrabbled at Jim’s bare skin until it was scored and bruised, or his mouth, which battened onto Jim’s throat, the curve of his neck, his shoulder with such force that he almost broke the skin. Jim did not protest or attempt to push him away. On the contrary; he was breathing Spock’s name, over and over again, rutting against him; he was erect, as was Spock, and when their engorged members brushed against each other he cursed in a low, vehement voice.

It was good, so good, but it was not _enough_.

Spock pulled away abruptly, and his hands seemed to know what his mind did not; he spun Jim around and slammed him against the bulkhead; Jim’s cheek connected forcefully with the metal wall, his hands going out to brace himself.

This was good; this was better. From this angle, he could penetrate Jim and that would be--

“Spock.” Jim’s voice; impossible to ignore, even in this state. “In my pocket. Right-hand side. It’ll make things easier.”

Jim’s trousers were in a pile on the floor, and every inch of Spock screamed at the seconds it took to locate and untangle them. There, in the right-hand pocket: a small bottle of personal lubricant. That would indeed make things easier.

His fingers felt clumsy, but he got the lid open well enough. The liquid that spilled onto his fingers was cool, and had a pleasing texture; divining its purpose, he applied it to himself, slid his slick fingers up the cleft of Jim’s buttocks and pressed inside.

Jim swore again, letting his head fall forward against the bulkhead, but Spock could barely hear him. Jim was not cool around his fingers; he was hot, as hot as Vulcan, as hot as the fires that were consuming Spock; hot enough, perhaps, to quench him.

He pulled his fingers out. It was not enough, he was distantly aware. It was not enough, there should be more preparation, more gentleness for this at least--but it did not matter. His body seemed to move of its own accord. His hand on Jim’s hip, the other on his own penis, guiding it into Jim, breaching him--

It was unbearably slow, and the sensation was utterly overwhelming. His hips pushed forward of their own volition, and abruptly he was buried to the hilt in Jim’s body.

Jim let out a low, broken noise. Against the wall, his hands clenched into fists.

Spock felt a strange cold wash over him, as though a bucket of ice water had been applied to his skin. “Jim,” he said. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, his heartbeat rapid, his thoughts slow.

Jim let out a slow breath, then said, shakily, “It’s all right.”

He unclenched his fist and wrapped his fingers around one of Spock’s hands, brought it down to his groin; his erection was flagging, but still present. It jumped in Spock’s hand when he touched it, and Jim sighed again, a better sound this time. “Spock, it’s--ah!--it’s all right. Keep going.”

Spock kept going. He endeavored to match the rhythm of his hand on Jim to that of his hips, and he must have been successful, from the sounds that escaped Jim’s mouth. For himself, he felt as though he was very far away, the fire in his body building to a fever pitch, bright sparks exploding in his field of vision; he was barely cognizant of Jim gasping his name as he reached completion. His own orgasm rolled over him seconds later, and for some indefinable period of time he knew no more.

* * *

He came back to himself gradually, aware of the stickiness of his skin, the unaccustomed closeness of another person. Hands on him, and a wet cloth; familiar hands. Jim.

They had made it to the bed during the gap in Spock’s memories; Jim was sprawled across the rumpled sheets, cheek resting on his knuckles, smiling. He was naked, and every expanse of skin that Spock could see was scratched and bruised. His lips were swollen and his hair was in disarray.

No other injuries were immediately obvious; to speculate about them would have been pure conjecture. Nevertheless, he could not help but speculate.

“I’m all right,” Jim said, as though he had divined Spock’s thoughts. “No need for the long face.”

“I was--” Spock begins, then stops, and starts again. “Captain. I am--”

“‘Captain’? I think after all this, Mr. Spock, you can call me by my given name.”

“Jim, then.” It feels clumsy on his tongue, as though he does not deserve it. “I must--if you require medical assistance--”

“I’m fine,” Jim said immediately. He was lying, of course. Even if Spock had not been able to view the physical evidence of what he had done, he knew that voice. James Kirk’s diplomat voice, the one he used with the leaders of hostile cultures and high-ranking Starfleet officers he did not trust.

“You are manifestly not ‘fine’,” he replied, unable, at that moment, to manufacture a more discreet argument than that.

Jim’s smile turned chagrined. “I never could put one past you. Fine, then. I’m sore as hell, but I’m not in dire need of immediate medical assistance. All right?”

It was not, but it would have to do. “All right.”

“Good.” Jim rolled onto his back, apparently untroubled by his nudity, and stretched languorously. Spock’s gaze glanced off the smooth curve of his shoulders, his broad chest and flat stomach, the soft bump of his flaccid penis. He forced his eyes away before Jim could catch him looking. There was no need to compound the violations he had already committed. And they were violations, no matter that Jim had willingly submitted to them. His choice, given Spock’s circumstances and the captain’s own feelings of friendship and loyalty toward him, could not be anything but constrained.

Privately, Spock admitted that he wished that were not the case. He wished that Jim had come to him out of simple desire, and not out of friendship or obligation, but he would not express that thought. Their minds were linked, but Jim was no trained telepath; he would not find that which Spock did not wish him to find. Impulses could make it through--and, clearly, the pain and urgency of the oncoming blood fever--but nothing else. He would not permit it.

Jim was scrubbing his hands through his sweat-soaked hair, apparently either oblivious to or unbothered by Spock’s perusal. Despite his battered condition, he looked amused. “Well, that was a new experience for me, I’ll say that much.”

“You have not--you have never been sexually intimate with a man before.”

“That obvious?” Jim looked up at him, his bruised mouth curled into a small, warm smile, his eyebrow quirked. “No, I haven’t. You’re the first. You should feel honored.”

“I do.” ‘Honored’ was a small part of what he was feeling, anyway.

“And you? Have you--” Jim paused, smile widening, hands sweeping in a broad gesture to indicate their ruined clothes, the room in disarray, their bruised and sweaty naked bodies. “--done this before?”

“No. Not with anyone, man or woman. Never.”

Jim’s smile faded. “That was your first time.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve never--” He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“What have you to be sorry for?” Spock asked, startled, for a moment at least, out of his own guilt-stricken musings.

“Your first time should be--important. Enjoyable” Jim looked away. “It should be with someone special.”

Spock considered this. “You are an inestimable starship captain, and a very dear friend--one of the few, I would add, who has achieved that status, and the only one I would wish to be here with me now.”

“What, you didn’t fancy jumping McCoy’s bones?”

“Indeed no, but that is not what I meant. You are, by all measurable standards, ‘someone special.’ I would not have permitted you to stay had that not been the case.”

“Thank you, Spock,” Jim said finally. Something had softened in his face. “The feeling is entirely mutual.”

“I am gratified to hear it, Captain. Jim.”

He did not intend to sound bitter, but his control was still fragile and something--his phrasing, perhaps, or the tone of his voice--must have communicated more than he meant to. Jim opened his eyes and looked at him. After a moment, he said, “Something on your mind, Spock?”

“Negative, Captain.”

“Uh huh.” Jim did not correct the title this time. He sat up; the movements were slow and careful, though his face betrayed no discomfort. That meant nothing. Jim was skilled at controlling his expressions when he found it necessary. His hands were trembling and there were finger-shaped bruises on his left hip. There was blood on the sheets. Not much, not enough to incite serious concern, but it was there all the same. From the scratches, perhaps. Or perhaps from other injuries. “You are a terrible liar.”

“I do not--”

“I’m going to get it out of you sooner or later, so you may as well save us both some aggravation and tell me now, don’t you think?”

“A...logical case.”

“Thank you.” Jim tilted his head. “I’m waiting.”

Spock was silent for several moments. He had no real hope that he could outlast his captain--stubbornness was one of Jim’s defining character traits, and in any case an explanation was owed--but the words would not fall into place in his mind.

“I--regret what happened,” he said finally.

Jim raised his eyebrows. When he spoke, his voice was very bland. “You do, do you.”

“I do. I regret--I regret that I have once again dragged you into this savagery with me. You deserve better. As my captain, and as my friend, you deserve better. I had hoped to spare you this. I regret that I was unsuccessful.”

“I see,” Jim said. “Spock, did it ever occur to you that I might not want to be spared?"

“I do not understand.”

“I’ll rephrase. Do you think I had no idea what would happen when I came here?”

“That is irrelevant,” Spock said impatiently. “Naturally you knew what would happen. That you made that sacrifice nevertheless is precisely what I regret.”

“Sacrifice,” Jim said slowly. After a moment, he reached out and, before Spock could think to move away, took his hand.

His skin was cool to the touch, and dry. His fingers intertwined with Spock’s like puzzle pieces locking into place.

It was strange that the contact should seem so significant, in light of recent events. Or perhaps not; deep in the grip of plak tow, Spock had lacked sufficient rationality or focus to sense Jim’s mind, despite their physical intimacy. Now, however--

Physical sensations came first. A long scratch across the inside of Jim’s arm was an irritating itch at the edge of his senses, as was the fresh bruising across the backs of his shoulders. He had bitten the inside of his cheek, and the taste of blood lingered in his mouth. A finger on his left hand had been dislocated; he had realigned it himself at some point before Spock regained awareness. The firm mattress was uncomfortable to sit on, a low deep ache and lingering tenderness and it was the _strangeness_ of it, almost, more than the pain--

‘Sore’ had been, perhaps, a predictable understatement, but Jim had been accurate in his assessment that none of his injuries were dire. Upon consideration, that was to be expected. Jim could be stubborn, but he was no fool. Spock allowed himself to relax slightly.

The press of Jim’s thoughts was familiar, warm and bright and enchantingly chaotic, the fragmented phrases of his internal monologue and the quick sharp edges of his agile intellect overlying the deep solid bedrock of his fundamental being. His mind warmed to Spock’s touch, and _oh._

He saw.

“You are,” Jim began, and amplified by their physical contact, his thoughts added, _my beloved, my heart, the other half of my soul--_

“--my first officer,” he finished out loud, “and my friend. There’s very little I wouldn’t do for you, you must know that.”

“I think I am beginning to see,” Spock said. His fingers tightened, and Jim glanced down at their joined hands. His expression turned chagrined, then creased into a slow smile. He did not release Spock’s hand. His mind did not recoil.

“Yes,” he said. “I suppose you do.”


End file.
